


History of A Kiss

by elapses



Category: The X-Files RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-09
Updated: 2007-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:29:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elapses/pseuds/elapses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a practiced art to not kissing, and that's their spring, 1997.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History of A Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2007, for the homeby_five ficathon.

There's a practiced art to not kissing, and that's their spring, 1997. Hallways, soundstages, outside trailers, their dedication to choreography is practically maudlin. It's all in the timing, though, and pretty soon their unkisses are down to a beat, their hands never falter on each other's faces, always missing by inches.

They don't miss fifteen times, but that's not when it happens.

\--

They always end up in the weirdest hotels when they're on location, and she doesn't know if it's Chris or one of his minions who has a partiality to old fixer-uppers of places to stay, but one day she's going to rip whoever it is a new one, because none of these places have nearly enough character to equate charm. The circuitry in this particular Osoyoos hotel is futzy, never quite right, her closet smells musty and she can't get cell phone reception on her floor.

She calls Piper from outside, but it's 10:17 and she's already asleep. It's Thursday, and she hasn't had a conversation with her daughter since Tuesday, and she spends too much time she should be using to sleep morosely questioning her career choices. Sometimes it feels like her hairdresser knows her better than her daughter does (certainly better than her ex-husband did), and god, no little girl deserves that. She's always starting early and working late, always missing moments and storytimes and sometimes holidays. She loves her job, loves these people, and she _knows_ she's fortunate, but _god_.

She doesn't want to miss the elevator because it's a finicky machine (it stopped three times on her way down), so she runs for it. It's 10:55 and there's David, leaning against the back wall.

"What floor?" he intones.

"You know what floor I'm on," she mumbles, taking the spot next to him on the railing. He leans forward and presses 15 again, even though it's still lit-up from the time he pressed it for himself.

"So," he says conversationally (she's really _not_ in the mood for conversation), "what brings you downstairs at this hour?"

Eleven is _nothing_ in show business, and their six am makeup call isn't unheard of either, but she indulges him and says, "There's no cell phone reception in my room."

"Yeah," he says, "Yeah, me too."

Their conversations have been ridiculously stilted lately, and she can't pinpoint why. She thinks maybe it's that they don't know what to do with each other anymore. They used drink coffee in their off-hours, go over lines, but lately it's all been kissing, or not kissing, and now that it's over and filmed, they can't seem to go back to normal.

"This is ridiculous," he mumbles, and she looks up to agree but he muffles her with his mouth (the hell?) and his hands find their way to her cheeks. She wonders if it's involuntary with him, too, because her traitorous fingers have found the back of his neck and for a first kiss this is becoming remarkably predictable. They come up for air but she's forgetting breathing, and then his lips are back and it's different this time. They've found uncharted territory, and her back is digging into the railing and his fingers are at her waist. She's positively gasping when they next unlock, and her eyes flutter open to find him staring watching her. Her mother said she shouldn't trust a man who kept his eyes open while kissing her, but he's toying with the hemline of her skirt now and god forbid she let him stop now.

She can't breathe and she can't kiss him anymore, and he's pulling at her skirt but it's glacial, the way he moves it. She can't think of what to do to speed him up, and so she does useless things like unbutton one of his shirt buttons and brush at imaginary lint on his shoulder. Her fingers find their way to his beltloops, though, and she's inches from dangerous territory and she stops, staring idly at the threshold her fingers seem to want her to cross. He catches her hestitation and his fingers stop mid-thigh, and they've crossed lines but they haven't quite crossed too many, really, yet.

He's stopped and he's leaving this up to her. She could drop it now, and they could laugh it off, _remember that time we almost made out in that elevator_?

Only they wouldn't laugh it off, they'd let their silences grow and their chemistry would be stilted. That happens to them sometimes, when their own tension is too much for them and they're snippy and short with each other. This last week is enough to prove that.

God, _god_ , there wasn't supposed to be this moment. This wasn't supposed to be slow, David was supposed to _consume_ her, if, when this happened, and they would carry themselves away in some misguided heat of passion. There wasn't supposed to be time for thinking or deciding or anything of that sort, she wasn't supposed to have time to wonder about the implications of anything until after the fact. She wonders if he's as terrified of this as she is, and she pulls her head up to see his face, and he _is_.

That's her decision, she supposes, because he leans down to kiss her and it's everything at once: probing, vehement, tender, ardent and fervid. She can't count the contradictions she's feeling, but her fingers are tremblingly pulling at his pants.

He's found her underwear, and she offers a silent prayer for shooting days in skirts, because if it had been a pantsuit she easily could have dressed in granny panties this morning. His fingers are tracing the outline of her panties and she can't help the shudder that runs down her spine, and it breaks her concentration long enough that she's tugging futilely at his zipper.

The elevator dings when she finally gets it down, and they pull apart faster than they came together. She can suddenly physically _feel_ the tangles in her hair, and she's pulling down her skirt and he's zipping up his pants, but more than anything her blood is still throbbing with need.

\--

Zoe grabs her hand when Mulder leans in to kiss Scully in the theater, and she squeezes her sister's fingers back. For half a second she fools herself into thinking they might pull through and manage to kiss each other this time, but they're just two people with a bee between them, and it isn't meant to happen.


End file.
